“Perhaps he murdered some one there,” said Mrs. Blair hopefully. “He looks—I hope I’m not hurting your feelings, Sir Eustace—but he does look as though he might murder some one.”
“Yes, pure Cinquecento! It amuses me sometimes—especially when one knows as well as I do how essentially law-abiding and respectable the poor fellow really is.”
“He’s been with you some time, hasn’t he, Sir Eustace?” asked Colonel Race.
“Six years,” said Sir Eustace, with a deep sigh.
“He must be quite invaluable to you,” said Mrs. Blair.
“Oh, invaluable! Yes, quite invaluable.” The poor man sounded even more depressed, as though the invaluableness of Mr. Pagett was a secret grief to him. Then he added more briskly: “But his face should really inspire you with confidence, my dear lady. No self-respecting murderer would ever consent to look like one. Crippen, now, I believe, was one of the pleasantest fellows imaginable.”
“He was caught on a liner, wasn’t he?” murmured Mrs. Blair.
There was a slight rattle behind us. I turned quickly. Mr. Chichester had dropped his coffee-cup.
Our party soon broke up; Mrs. Blair went below to sleep and I went out on deck. Colonel Race followed me.
“You’re very elusive, Miss Beddingfeld. I looked for you everywhere last night at the dance.”